The
English law assumes the prisoner innocent until he shall have been
proved guilty. And, seeing him there a prisoner, a man who happens to
have been caught, while others (myself included) are pleasantly at
large after doing, unbeknown, innumerable deeds worse in the eyes of
heaven than the deed with which this man is charged--deeds that do not
prevent us from regarding our characters as quite fine really--I
cannot but follow in my heart the example of the English law and
assume (pending proof, which cannot be forthcoming) that the prisoner
in the dock has a character at any rate as fine as my own. The war
that this assumption wages in my breast against the fact that the man
will perhaps be sentenced is too violent a war not to discommode me.
Let justice be done. Or rather, let our rough-and-ready, well-meant
endeavours towards justice go on being made. But I won't be there to
see, thank you very much.
It is the natural wish of every writer to be liked by his readers. But
how exasperating, how detestable, the writer who obviously touts for
our affection, arranging himself for us in a mellow light, and
inviting us, with gentle persistence, to note how lovable he is! Many
essayists have made themselves quite impossible through their
determination to remind us of Charles Lamb--`St.
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